The guy in back of me has to pee. The guy in front, dressed like a bloated high school prep student, is working his finest material on his date. His best line goes something like, "I'm in accounting." It's a late Friday night and I'm standing outside of Player's waiting to be greeted by one of its "ambassadors."

Player's practically beckons unsuspecting customers beyond its doors. You could hear a remix of Snap's "The Power" blarin' serious out the door. It could have been intoxicating, except for the fact that it carried all the emotional impact of a high school dance.

Dressed in a caramel-puke tan grandfather's sweater, gray V-neck sweater, a powder-blue women's pajama top and blue pants, I knew I didn't belong, and judging by the crowd outside, I didn't want to.

Finally inside, the beats and heat were mind wrinkling. I worked my way through the crowd hoping for an opening, for some breathing room. It was too hot and too soon to be sociable.

Weaving past the clusters of Brutes and Charlie's Angels, I knew I had entered a different world. It was a combo of jock cock and lip gloss. From the guys to the gals --everything is low-cut and on sale. Hell, what goods did I have to sell?

Taking it all in by the rows of pool tables in the back, I sit and smoke and sweat. A plump and unnaturally tanned woman is standing next to me contemplating how low is too low. She asks a friend next to her, if she should roll up her baby-T to reveal some belly button or play the prude and tuck it in. Her friend pushes her to roll it up. She does, before telling her friend -- "You got balls."

With that, she quickly disappears into the pit of designer flannels and ribbed cotton T's -- and gets picked up before I could light up another smoke. The mating ritual here is legendary and obvious, I just never realized the intensity. The dancing is merely the back beat to the blurry-eyed scope. After all, it is called Player's.

"It looks like an ass-kissing fest," observes Walt Lee (senior-administration of justice), his eyes scanning the crowded dance floor. "Too much puckering."

Maybe it's pure lust that makes this club the watering hole for so many different cultural cliques? Not since high school have the lines been so blurred -- east and west enders, blacks and whites, gays and straights, athletes and preps all end up here. The only politics are sexual, especially after a few MGD's.

Maybe it's the lust that scares me? I don't know. My glasses are fogging up, sweat is dripping down my back in furious spurts and I want out. Promising myself I'd return Sunday night, I squeeze out of the joint after lasting only 45 cramped minutes. If only I'd found out about the coat check sooner.

There's no line, no fanfare of Ambassadors to meet and greet, no cologne stench and no immovable herd. The colored lights flare out along the dance floor but hit no one. Although an Ambassador insists the club will be packed by midnight, when I enter and pay the $2 cover, the place is dead. And I like it that way.

Just like any of the other bars around town, such as the Phyrst and the Rathskeller, Player's has its place. It's history (before Player's, it used to be called Mr. C's) and the fact that it's the only consistent dance club around make it a draw. Still, Player's captures some seedier element that case races and the Phyrst Phamly don't.

There is something behind the beer signs and red carpeting. It's both sides of State College -- a place where Ki-Jana Carter is cheered as a celebrity and pencils and paper are provided for getting phone numbers. It's where the blue and white go to get laid.

And the patrons that come here recognize it. For many, these two sides spawn a deep love/hate relationship.

"In general, I hate this place," asserts Janine Dunklebarger. "It's a nasty little bar, it's the best one in town. But, it's nasty."

For Dunklebarger, she found out about the "nasty" part early on.

"I was absolutely clueless," Dunklebarger remembers, recalling one early male dance partner. "He got an erection and I practically shit. It frightened me."

As far as I could tell not too many males were fostering erections tonight. Most were ogling and schmoozing with Player's undisputed "Grand Queen Diva," local resident Toni Fetterman. When she's not working at Centre County Memorial Park cemetery, Fetterman reigns supreme at Player's. Dressed in a shapeless red dress and heavy lipstick, Fetterman works her friends and me over.

"I always dress up. I get dressed up to go to the grocery store," she proclaims in that bitchy way only royalty can afford.

Player's has become her social scene out of necessity. Tonight is after all devoted to "Alternative Lifestyles."

"I know 90 percent of the people here," Fetterman belies, still in bitch mode. "I live with two gay men . . . so this is my life."

Fetterman is not alone. To many, Player's has become the hub of State College activity. Although local resident Jennifer Savage admits Player's is "a schlocky sports bar," she knows the club has a monopoly on lighted floors and open sexuality.

"It's all we've got," she concedes.

Player's may serve a true purpose along social and sexual lines and the place should be respected for it. Because of it's over-the-top cheesiness (i.e. lighted dance floor, smoke machines, "Ticket Night"), it appeals to more locals than any of the other bars. Whereas most of the other clubs cater to cliqus, Player's will always be booming for anyone. They may pimp for dollars, but they'll take all customers.